forgiveness (can you imagine)
by hogwartswillwelcomemehomexoxo
Summary: He remembers the bright-eyed girl who urged him to realize how lucky they were to be alive. So much has changed since then.


"But they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees and no one shall make them afraid."

In recent months, this fragment of scripture has pervaded Alexander's dreams. Sometimes he dreams that he is a young boy in Charlestown, being given a fig by his mother as a rare treat. Other times George Washington himself appears, telling him how he yearns for a vine and fig tree of his own. But most nights it is his son Philip that he sees, sitting under a fig tree in a sprawling field of green. Alexander watches as he writes frantically, a sparkle in his son's eyes so reminiscent of his own. Sometimes Philip looks up at him with Eliza's smile spreading across his face and an easy manner that is all his own. He finds solace in this image, his son free from pain and at peace.

Alexander is in the midst of one such dream when he is awoken by a whimper. He rolls onto his side, sees that Eliza's eyes are still tightly shut. His heart aches when she makes the pitiful sound again. He reaches out a hand, runs his thumb across her cheek. Her eyes pop open and for a moment he thinks she will recoil from his touch. He is grateful when she does not, even more grateful when she allows herself to be pulled into his arms. Pressing her face into his chest, she begins to weep. He does not need to ask what her dream was about, already knows the answer. It is always the same.

They stay in this position for what feels like an eternity. She is shaking now, her breath coming out in staccato gasps. He knows that nothing he can say will assuage her sorrow, so he simply rubs his hand in circles on her back. Seeing her cry has always deeply affected him and he feels his own eyes begin to water. Yet even in this moment of anguish, he thanks God that he is allowed to be at her side. Only recently was he given the luxury of being invited back into his wife's bed. Their relationship is far from healed, but he supposes she no longer has the energy to punish him. Lord knows he punishes himself enough for the both of them.

Eventually the tears subside and her breathing finds a steady rhythm. He expects her to roll away from him now that his duties as comforter have been fulfilled. Instead she remains in his arms, leading him to assume she has already fallen back asleep. As usual she proves him wrong, shifting her head to look up at him. Neither of them speak. Even after everything that has happened, they have not lost the ability to communicate with their eyes alone. Right now her eyes are telling him that she needs him. He rolls onto his back and she moves closer, stretching out an arm so that her hand rests next to her head on his chest. It is not long before she is softly snoring. He smiles to himself, remembering a time when he would tease her for snoring, pretending it kept him awake all night. She would try to be offended by his jabs, but could never keep herself from laughing at his imitations of her. Now the sound of it relaxes him and he is asleep before he realizes that his eyes are closing.

When he wakes again early sunlight is spilling through the curtains, flooding their room. He feels some semblance of well-restedness, a rarity for him. She is still asleep, will be for a while longer, so he disentangles himself from her arms and begins preparing for the day.

He carries out his morning routine in silence, as he always does. Foregoing breakfast, he slips through the front door and closes it silently behind him. The cool morning air bites at the exposed parts of his skin, but he hardly minds. He walks through the yard and out into the city.

Not for the first time, he is overwhelmed by the vastness of Manhattan. He tries to take a slightly different route every day, if only to keep his mind sharp. It did not take him long after his son's death to learn that an unoccupied mind often falls prey to unwelcome and painful thoughts. Today he only goes as far as the park, opting to find a bench where he can sit in relative silence. In the past, he would have hated the quiet of his new life. He himself was never quiet, always having a thought or opinion he felt needed to be shared for the world. But, for the first time in his life, Alexander is completely at a loss for words.

In times of hardship, his response has always been to write. He wrote his way out of poverty, wrote to defend his beliefs from the opponents and critics. He wrote the enchanted words that made Eliza fall helplessly in love with him. But not even he, with his proclivity for bending the english language to his will, could write his son back to life.

The sun is high in the sky when he finally makes his way back home. He walks up the lawn to the house, stopping when he notices a figure in the parlor window. Eliza sits at the piano, fingers moving furiously across the keys. He takes a rare opportunity to observe his wife without her knowledge. She is dressed all in black, as any mourning parent would be. Hands stilling for a moment, she looks out the window, past the yard and into the city beyond. Her hair is beginning to show flecks of gray and her face seems to hold a permanently despondent expression. He remembers the bright-eyed girl who urged him to realize how lucky they were to be alive. So much has changed since then.

He allows himself to watch her for a moment longer before going inside. Going upstairs, he finds her still in the parlor, hands in motion once again. He waits in the doorway for the song to end before walking towards her.

"Eliza, are you ready?"

She turns around at the sound of his voice. As usual, he is momentarily stunned by her beauty. Over twenty years with this woman and she still has the power to leave him breathless without any effort at all. She does not respond to his question, simply lowers the cover over the keys before rising from the bench and following him down the stairs.

Weather permitting, they take daily walks in the garden. He hopes that seeing the flowers bloom will serve as a reminder that life continues to go on despite their son's death. If nothing else, it gets her out of the house. At first he had to coax her outside, promising to leave her alone for the rest of the day if she only did this one thing for him. Now, at least, she comes willingly. Whether or not she enjoys herself has yet to be determined.

As soon as they step outside he feels a difference. The usual silence still hangs between them but it is less heavy, less suffocating. It reminds him of the verdure of their marriage, when they could pass hours without saying a word, their comfort with one another belying the need for speech. She was, and still is, the only one with whom he has ever allowed himself to simply _be_ , without constantly feeling he has something to prove.

He allows her to set the pace for the walk, as he always does. The speed of her gait often gives him a clue to the quality of her mood on that particular day. Today she moves at a leisurely pace through the flowers, seeming more at ease than he has seen her in months. She walks closer to him than usual, so close that their shoulders occasionally bump together. He revels in the feeling of it, having missed even the simplest form of physical contact with his wife more than he could have ever imagined.

"It's a beautiful day, don't you think Betsy?" he asks gently, making his daily - and usually futile - attempt to engage her in conversation.

In one swift and unexpected movement, she reaches for his hand, knitting her fingers between his. He stops walking, turns to her with a poorly suppressed expression of shock. "It's quiet uptown," she replies, voice strong. "He would have liked it here."

Her words rupture something inside of him. For the first time since his son's funeral he finds himself crying openly. She steps closer, rests her cheek against his shoulder, both of her small hands enfolding his larger one. He feels a dampness on his sleeve and knows that she is crying as well. Removing his hand from her grasp he offers his arm to her. She takes it, and together they continue their walk.

It seems that today he is the one being reminded that life goes on.

He has always loved the symmetry of married life. Each day begins and ends in the same way: the two of them, in bed together, secluded from the rest of the world. For a long while he was banished to sleep in his office and this beautiful equilibrium was lost to him. Now, as he stands in the doorway of their bedroom, his wife waiting for him, he feels a harmony return to his life that has been missing for far too long.

Pulling back the coverlet and sheets, he gets into bed beside her. She is lying on her side, a hand propping up her head so she can look at him. A small smile graces her features and he thinks it may be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. They fall easily into their usual position, he on his back and her burrowed into his side.

"I have missed this," she says through a yawn.

"As have I," he agrees. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. "Although, I must admit, I did not miss the snoring."

She looks up at him with a scowl that does not reach her eyes. "Says the man who argues in his sleep. I should have anticipated you would be equally as verbose at night as during the day."

He opens his mouth with the intention of defending himself, but instead finds himself laughing, more due to an overwhelming sense of joy than the humor of the situation. She joins in and the sound of it fills his heart.

It takes them a few moments to settle down. He feels her begin to relax against him and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep well, Alexander."

He does.


End file.
